Adultish

People keep asking me what I'm doing once I graduate. I tell them that first all, I'm not even sure if I'm gonna pass my classes at this rate. And if I do graduate, I'll either start selling drugs or become a buddhist monk. At this point, anything is possible. (I won't actually sell drugs, chill mom).

It's hard to make plans for the rest of your life when you can't even remember to take out the trash. I can hardly focus on anything lately. I'll sit down to do work and my mind starts to wander immediately. I daydream about all of the places I'd like to go and all of the music I would like to play. I think about my dream house, my dream family, my dream job, my dream husband... I know that being this wistful is fucking impractical but I can't help it.

I want to be a cellist more than anything, but I've been in pain for two years now. I've pushed through it all this time, but it gets harder and harder. I see all my friends improving more rapidly than I do because they have fewer physical limitations. It's hard to not feel angry. I've been so angry with the people who misdiagnosed and mistreated me- the doctor who shot me up with cortisone and prescribed pills that seriously screwed up my stomach, the physical therapist who encouraged me to come to physical therapy for 5 months (not cheap) while actually making things worse, the teachers who told me to just suck it up and keep playing while I was in pain... But there are also people who have helped me. I'm starting to realize that most people want to help, they just don't always know how. Or they don't have the time. It sucks, but it doesn't make them bad people. I've also become more aware of just how many people have to deal with some kind of pain every day, often much much worse than what I have. It makes me much more empathetic towards everybody. You just never know what somebody is going through, and it's not always on the surface. People can be good at hiding pain when it doesn't go away, and I've slowly become one of those people.

There is a chance that this will be a problem the rest of my life and seriously limit my career, but I'm trying to not feel so angry about it any more. The universe is cruel and chaotic, and it doesn't owe me anything. I wish I could believe that God had some kind of plan for me, and that this was his way of sending some kind of message. Maybe in a dream, he would come to me and say, "Cecilia- You need to leave all this behind and become a zoologist. That is your true calling." And I would say, "Thanks for letting me know! I'll get started on that tomorrow." That would make all of this more easy. Instead, I'm left figuring it out for myself.

But not everything is bad.

Sue

Picasso- two women at a bar

 My doorbell rang today. I figured it had something to do with a church, because it usually does.

 It was my next door neighbor Sue, an older black woman who lives alone. We don't know each other very well, but every time she sees me she yells, "Hey Baby!" from her porch. Every now and then she'll tell me stories about living in Chicago or remind me that women who don't learn how to cook will never get husbands. Which may be true.

I opened the door and before I even had a chance to say hello, Sue walked in and put a flyer on my kitchen table. Without having a chance to read it, all I really noticed was the word "Revival" in big, bold letters, a photo of a serious guy in a suit, and a little border of flames.. which I'm assuming was supposed to represent hell.

She pulled out a little envelope and said, "This young man is preachin tonight in the church across the street. Can you donate anything to help him get back to New York? I can put both of our names on the envelope."

I tried to quickly think of an excuse to avoid giving away my money. I mean, it all seemed like nonsense. But I like Sue and I like Sue liking me, so I decided to just go along with it.

"Just a second." I told her.

She followed me and I whipped $5 bill out of my wallet. I couldn't help but notice she was wearing a leather jacket on top of a nightgown and flip flops with pink socks. She seemed relieved when I handed her the money and gasped out, "Baby, thank you so much!" I told her it was no problem.

She lingered for a moment and told me, "I've been so sad. I have so much pain in my heart. You know I'm from Chicago? Well, I don't know if I told you this but my only son and my mother burned in a fire at our church in Chicago." She started crying in the middle of my kitchen. I gave her a long hug.

"I'm really sorry," I told her. "You know, you can come over and visit me any time"

She told me again, "I've got so much pain in my heart. Just keep me in your prayers."

I promised her I would, and I actually meant it. I don't really know how to pray and I've never really done it, but I could try.

She headed out the door and asked me if I wanted to come along to the service. I hesitated and told her I had a lot of homework.

"But tell the preacher I said hey," I added.

She laughed and walked away.

My future great-grandchildren don't give a damn.

I just had the best summer of my life. I'm afraid that someday I'll just forget it all. What if Facebook suddenly crashes and all my photos and little stories disappear? I'm realizing now that I am relying on the internet to keep my records so that I can occasionally glance back and tell myself that yes, it all really happened.

When I was still young, my Grandmother began developing some form of dementia that grew progressively worse until she didn't even recognize her own family. I promised myself that I would try my absolute best to remember everything that ever happened to me. I began writing more, taking more pictures, and visualizing the few memories I still had of my early childhood. When I spent time around my Grandmother when she was at her worse, I often wondered, "If you completely lose memory of a person or event, isn't it like it never really happened in the first place?" I wondered if the time we spent talking to her and telling her stories and encouraging her really counted for anything, when we knew it would disappear for her in five minutes. And I realized that it wasn't much different than losing a memory in five years or a decade. Eventually, we'll all lose out memories. If not from dementia, death will do it. And because I'm young and have a big ego to take care of, I'm afraid my stories will just gradually disappear when I grow old and die, until the last trace of me is some great-grandchild growing old and muttering something like, "My Grandmother's mother... what was her name again?" And that will be it. My body will just be bits of carbon floating around and my last remaining photos will be tucked away in an attic underneath piles of photos of my own dead children. Finally, somebody will come across these photos and try to figure out who all these people are, and finally give up and get back to important business, like living. I mean, who really has time to look at old photos of mysterious, dead relatives?

Something I don't want to forget.. dear future great grandchildren: KEEP THIS ONE!

making sounds

Subway musicians in Paris

I think a lot about what it means to be a musician. For many, being a musician is about serving God. For godless, mortal music slaves like me, meaning and motivation don't always come so easily. Like anything, learning an instrument isn't necessarily a big deal in the beginning. But eventually, the only way to continue is to decide that it's important. It's too difficult to drag yourself into an early morning rehearsal or carry your instrument through the rain (letting your umbrella cover the instrument instead of yourself, of course) without deciding that what you're doing is worthwhile. Every now and then, I step back and ask myself why this is what I want. Am I just afraid of quitting? Do I like the occasional ego boost? Am I afraid that I'm not capable of doing anything else successfully? To some extent, I could answer yes to all of these questions. But my biggest reason for continuing to play cello is that I believe with my whole heart that it's the most beautiful sounding thing in the world. I believe that people want to hear it and that they should get a chance to. And I believe that both the process and end result of trying to create something beautiful is one of the most important things that a human can experience and share with others.
    All week now, I've been around middle school and high school kids who are exceptionally motivated to play music. Most of them haven't yet decided yet that they will dedicate their lives and careers to music, but for whatever reason, they show up and play cello all day and practice and pay attention to the classes. And it's OK that they haven't figured it all out yet: sometimes you have to go through the motions and and do some real work before you can find meaning in what you're doing. I impulsively joined the cross country team in High School with the intention of getting skinny and looking good. It wasn't till after the season that I really appreciated the actual experience. The same thing happened with cello: through a series of emotional and physical struggles, I eventually figured out that I loved it. And this week, I've loved being around younger kids who are starting to realize that they love it too. I played in a masterclass this afternoon and immediately after thought of about a million things that could have gone better. As I walked off the stage to put my cello away, one of the girls from the camp approached me and said, "That moved me. I started crying it was so beautiful." I almost said something like, "Thanks, but it wasn't that great" but I stopped myself when I realized that she really meant it. How could I even consider dismissing such a heartfelt response to something I worked so hard to create? Making music is about affecting somebody, and even if everybody else in the auditorium though the performance was terrible, knowing that I evoked something that powerful, especially in a young cellist, meant the world to me. I hope that one day when she's older and starts wondering whether it's even worth it, a little wide-eyed girl will help her remember why she's worked so hard for such a long time. And then everything will be ok.

Sometimes doctors are dumb.

I watched a documentary this afternoon called Food Matters. It focuses the role (or lack of role) of nutrition in the health care industry. Some of the information is common sense: our food is overprocessed and we consume a lot of weird shit that we probably shouldn't. But what's mind blowing to me is that doctors receive very little training in nutrition. Eating is the most important thing we do to keep our bodies functioning, and doctors rarely discuss nutrition with patients. From my experience, they rarely look for simple and obvious solutions to problems. Instead, they often go straight for the drugs because that's what they're trained to do and that's how they (and the drug companies) make money. When I first developed arm problems, I went straight to the orthopedic clinic. The doctor hardly asked me any questions before quickly prescribing an anti-inflammatory. For months I took this drug and felt more and more nauseated, until I could hardly keep food down. If I had used a little common sense, I would have realized that I wasn't going to heal by depriving my body of nutrients. When I went back to the orthopedic clinic, the doctor said, "Oh you're still in pain? I'll give you a cortisone shot." He quickly disappeared from the room and a nurse returned to dig around for the stuff they needed to inject me. "So... what's wrong with me? Is this tendonitis? Or carpal tunnel?" I asked. She continued to fish around the cabinet and said, "Uhm... .yeah something like that." Then they gave me the shot and I left. A few days later, I suddenly felt better and played for a few hours, but next day I was in pain again because I played too much. I wasn't feeling the pain that I should have been feeling.

I finally got help from people who actually took time to talk to me and ask questions, but I still can't believe that these doctors never stopped to ask me questions about the way I move when I play cello and how that may contribute to the problem. They never asked me about my lifestyle and diet. I'm not saying that modern medicine is a joke, but I've realized through this process that there are so many sides to health. I don't want to be preachy, but this is all I have to say: Before you drive to the pharmacy for whatever issue you're facing, take a step back and look at  what's causing the problem. Are you eating well? Exercising? Stressed out? Popping pills is easy, but it's important to take your health into your own hands. As much as you can anyway. Sometimes we need pills or surgery, but it shouldn't be the first thing we go for. We want to be able to trust the doctors in the white lab coats, but it's important to remember that they have their own agendas and they're probably thinking more about what they're eating for dinner than about your problems. If this sounds cynical, it's because so far, doctors have only prolonged my problems by giving me drugs rather than actually helping me solve them.

this is what it feels like, I guess

I feel like my heart is breaking over and over again. I'm starting to forget how the cello feels cradled in my arms and all I want to do is rescue it from my locker and run away with it... going somewhere far away to lock myself in a room and play for days with nobody around to point out that I am not supposed to be playing because I have a mysterious injury. School is pretty much over, and I'm sitting in my room looking at the artifacts from my past life as a musician: sheet music, a practice mute, rosin....

I miss practicing in melrose with the window open and seeing faces turn in my direction as they wonder where all the noise is coming from. When I'm not making loud sounds, I feel like nobody hears me and nobody sees me. Not only am I not making money from gigs, I'm spending all my college money on physical therapy. When the radio station cruelly decides to play some beautiful cello concerto, I have to turn the station to something really boring and terrible. I have a lump in my throat that does not go away. Even though I know the universe is not out to get me, it's certainly not paying attention. This must be what unrequited love feels like.

Sarah Jordan

The first time I saw Sarah Jordan, she was weaving through crowds of people in between classes, looking like she had important business to attend to. She was taller than the other girls and her neck was long. For weeks, I had been hearing her name.

Sarah Jordan
Sarah Jordan
Sarah Jordan

And wondering about her name. And wondering why nobody just called her "Sarah."

 A girl from orchestra was nice enough to invite me to her party one day and I sat quietly watching everybody talking and laughing, I noticed that Sarah Jordan's laugh stood out among every other laugh. Full of breath and pitch. I wondered if she noticed me. She looked like the kind of girl who would never notice me. Who would never invite me along to go see a movie.

She complimented my sunglasses and grabbed them out of my hand. She looked at them like she had actually fallen in love with them, then put them on and showed them off. Everybody looked at her as she made movie star poses and I suddenly felt shy with my cheap tank top and long, unruly hair. I wanted to be like her but it seemed impossible.

At the end of that semester freshman year of high school, Sarah Jordan had a big party in the middle of the afternoon. We decided to race razor scooters. I started turning towards the right to go up the hill, but Sarah Jordan quickly turned to the left and began rolling downhill. I knew it was a bad idea.. racing scooters down a hill... but she seemed so confident and I quickly switched directions. We rolled faster and faster. I could feel the tiny wheels underneath me becoming more and more unsure of themselves but  it was too late to stop. I heard a gasp and suddenly saw Sarah Jordan fly off her scooter. I screamed and slammed the brake down, causing me to fly off my scooter too. I looked over at Sarah Jordan and back at myself. We had bits of gravel stuck to our bloody legs and we just stayed there lying on the street for a moment. We finally pulled ourselves up and hobbled back up to the house. Though the yard, into the house, and up the stairs we marched as our friends stared at us. Sarah Jordan's mother instructed her to get into the bathtub so she could wash off the blood and gravel. I sat on the seat of the toilet holding a cloth up to my chin.

"I am so sorry" I whimpered.

Sarah Jordan looked up at me from the bathtub, "This is all my fault." Her voice cracked and her eyes began to fill with tears.

We started crying as we sat slouched over and holding washcloths to our wounds.

This girl I thought was so beautiful and confident and everything I wanted to be had transformed into a bleeding, crying human being. And I was just the same.

I looked at her with her messy hair, dirty clothes, and bloody legs just sitting there in the bathtub. I decided then and there that I loved her.

She's not as popular as she seems, and doesn't even shop at Abercrombie any more. She drinks too much milk and sometimes uses her friends' toothbrushes. She never walks in straight lines, but instead winds around and looks in all directions and always finds something interesting to look at and then finds the perfect words to describe it. Men think she's hot but she's actually just beautiful. Sarah Jordan is my best friend and I'm proud of the scars she's caused me. I would follow her down any hill, any time.

really, we can't help it

art by david shrigley

With every photo and remark I post online, I step back and ask how it will shape my identity. I can scroll down and click a few buttons to trace back conversations and pictures that would never have been remembered. And if one decided to go back far enough to uncover this fragmented version of myself, a screwy story would unfold. So I continue to add to this story bit by bit and occasionally ask myself how it fits in to the larger narrative. Every now and then, a comment or photo makes no sense in my story and with one click, it can disappear forever. Sometimes, I go far back in my emails or facebook messages to remember an interaction from years ago. It feels wrong, but it's so easy.

The internet lets me escape the physical world. I spend so much time learning to play a big, awkward instrument. When I finally get in front of people and it's time to perform, my hands might get sweaty or my heart might beat to fast or my fingers might be too cold because some jerk left a window open. There's no getting around the realness of it all. But I get on the computer and I create and destroy with so little effort. I can pause and plan and delete sentences and friends and pictures. It's a high.

Because it's Knoxville, I run into old friends constantly. I'm always surprised when one of these friends says something like "How's your arm?" or "So you're dating Steven?" I shouldn't be surprised- that's how the internet (especially facebook) works. But I forget sometimes the hundreds of people who can so easily keep track of these little bits of my life. And I've caught glimpses of so many lives myself. It feels like I'm looking in the medicine cabinets of everyone I know. And I'm not saying that anything is wrong with all of this, but if you're one of those people who says things like "That guy is facebook stalking me" or "It's so creepy- she comments on all of my pictures," just remember that you signed up for this. And if you think the girl who comments on everything you do is creepy, think about all the people who are afraid to comment because they feel somehow ashamed or undeserving about having full access to so much of your life. What's creepy is that so many of us are in denial about how excited we are to have this power to drop in and check up on somebody's life. And we're in denial about how excited we are to have the power to create our our own stories about our own lives, whether they are comedies or tragedies or just plain boring and cute.

Don't feel creepy if you're reading this right now. I think that.... I love being caught up in this for now. I've created a version of "myself" that I feel pretty satisfied with, and I'm starting to believe that "myself" is more important to the world than myself.

made this in high school. thought it was cooler than it was. but it fits.

getting better

If you're looking for something witty and amusing, this is probably not what you want to read. Also, I'm pretty aware the the following paragraphs are very self-centered, but they are as honest as I know how to be, although I know it's full of cliches and mushy gushy rhetoric. If for some reason you can relate to this stuff or get anything out of it, please let me know because I'm not so sure that a blog is the best format for writing diary-like thoughts like these.

-----------------

I'm learning how to learn. Despite being injured, my cello lessons have been amazingly constructive lately. It's difficult for me to admit, but I've often closed myself off in the past and approached new information with negativity and defeatism. For the first time, and probably out of desperation, I have decided to let go of the fear of losing control and admitting that I have so so far to go in learning music. Last semester, I desperately attempted to force my body to complete tasks it did not want to complete. I marched up three flights of stairs each day and locked myself in the practice room until it was time for me to go home to sleep, then I came back to school as soon as I woke up. I took pills that allowed me to ignore pain and I rubbed menthol gel on my arm that distorted my senses. I became angry at my own body for disobeying me when my recital was a month away.

And now, because I have to, I respect my body and the work it does. I see myself as an animal now, and not a machine. Six weeks of physical therapy and alexander technique have made me truly aware of my body for the first time. I've also realized how comforting it is just to be touched by another person. As a twenty one year old, I've almost forgotten what it feels like to be held by a parent. But after falling apart, I actually enjoy needing to be touched whether it's a massage in physical therapy or having my neck gently cradled in my alexander technique lesson. I'm letting people take care of me, and I've learned how to stop feeling guilty about needing help and needing to basically be held and loved like a child again

And nobody wants to hear a love story, so I won't tell mine. But I am with somebody who treats me (and everybody else) with so much respect and love that... I feel like I might explode with happiness.

So these days, I don't give myself guilt trips about things I can't control. I try to listen to my body instead of manipulating it. I don't allow myself to spend time with people who make me insecure and weak. I let people help me because I know I need it. I remind myself that I must define success for myself, and it can happen within my own time frame. And I allow myself to fall in love because I know I'm worth loving back.

More than anything, I hope that someday I can become strong enough that I can return some of the love that's getting thrown my way.

The crude sounds that you are inspired to create will never escape this room. I sealed the windows and doors shut before the concert. You will never meet the pretty girl down the hallway because she refuses to strain her neck so that she may hear the faint sound of something that may or may not be the radio.

When you pour your heart out, it splashes around on the floor and lingers and stinks. I'm walking carefully around it on my way out of this place. Others will slip as they run towards you smiling, and maybe a few will slide right into your arms.
What a mess.